


Faction

by ayellowbirds



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Interfaction Interaction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayellowbirds/pseuds/ayellowbirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Circumstances have drawn the Autobots and the Decepticons together in the face of a common foe and the promise of outside assistance in restoring Cybertron. How well will two factions function as one, and what does this mean for those who have spent all their lives knowing only the war? On top of everything, Shockwave has to cope with having a face again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Negotiations

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Function](https://archiveofourown.org/works/750206) by [pink_shoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_shoes/pseuds/pink_shoes). 



> This continues from the last chapter of Ifi’s story Function, and presumes you have read it. The continuity is G1 Cartoon, with heavy influence from the IDW G1 comics; the [universal stream](http://tfwiki.net/wiki/Universal_stream) is Primax 413.06 Iota.
> 
> **"Well, he thought, so _this_  is diplomacy. It’s like lying, only to a better class of people."  
>  —**Terry Pratchett,  _The Fifth Elephant_

“Well, I suppose that I thought, when I heard that they were due for their first adult upgrade any day,” Silverbolt said, shifting awkwardly in place, “I suppose I didn't think that it meant _any_ day.”

“That’s how it is, Silverbolt,” replied Ratchet, looking up from the schematics he was going over with Hoist, Wheeljack, and Grapple. Ratchet and Wheeljack’s own involvement in the creation of the Aerialbots had led the six of of them—Superion included—to regard the two older Autobots as parental figures, and they took fairly well to the role. “I was the same age when I got my—no, actually, I was younger, come to think of it.”

“Besides,” Wheeljack said, though his own optics were stuck on the schematics, and his digits traced a stylus over some details to be changed, “with things calming down between the Autobots and the Decepticons, the girls figured this was as good a time as any.”

“A rather exciting time,” Grapple commented, smiling. “I envy them, coming into adulthood in the midst of a treaty, to be able to see both sides setting aside their differences in the face of bigger threats.”

“Do you think it’ll last?” asked Slingshot, who was straining to find a spot to view the schematics, standing one moment behind Wheeljack, the next behind Hoist. He had been strangely insistent about having a look at what was going on in the labs, and Silverbolt had come along under the pretext of making sure his brother didn’t get into trouble. In truth, he was there because he was fretting about the upcoming celebrations and new additions to the ranks, and wanted to vent. Springer, Arcee, and Hot Rod were still just sparklings to him, regardless of their significantly greater _chronological_ age, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that they were about to catch up in maturity with with something so quick as a hardware upgrade.

“It would be nice,” Ratchet replied, though his expression was more weary than his words. “We’ll have to wait and see. And, if it doesn’t…”

“Then at least these young ones will be prepared,” said Hoist, tapping a section of the schematic that indicated weapons systems. From what Silverbolt could see, it looked like the design was meant for Hot Rod.

“At any rate, things are changing,” Wheeljack said. “Since the Quints attacked and Optimus and Megatron agreed to try and work together, we’ve been sending out messages to Autobots all across the galaxy, trying to consolidate our resources and share information. The Decepticons did the same, and I hear we’ve got more than a few folks coming back to Cybertron.”

 _Cybertron_ , Silverbolt thought. That was part of the problem, wasn’t it? The other Autobots were all so excited to be back on their home planet, and those who were still stationed on Earth could be heard grousing about it over comms. The Decepticons seemed just as pleased with the situation, with the exception of Motormaster and the Stunticons. If anything, the land-bound Decepticon combiner team seemed even more ill at ease about being away from Earth. Silverbolt and the other Aerialbots might have spent most of their lives up to now on Earth, but the Stunticons were made from Earth vehicles. More than any other recently-made Transformer, they were Earthlings, not Cybertronians.

In some ways, Silverbolt was glad to be on Cybertron. There was so much of their own culture to learn about, so many things that contrasted wonderfully with everything that his brothers found distasteful about life on Earth. Skydive was all too often lost in scientific development, or in admiration of Skyfire and Starscream’s scientific prowess and academic experience. Fireflight was, as usual, distracted by everything around him. Slingshot relished every opportunity to show off, and training and flying with the Seekers gave him a chance to learn new tricks, while Air Raid was happy to join him. But Silverbolt once caught Fireflight sighing while browsing through a collection of photos of Earth environments, and more often than usual, he noticed Skydive tinkering with some models of human aircraft that he’d picked up somewhere. And as much as Slingshot and Air Raid enjoyed spending time with the Decepticon flyers, they seemed to spend a lot of time with the Stunticons, too, watching recordings of television and movies from Earth, or playing games. Not that he minded that last part too much; it meant he had an excuse to spend time with Motormaster. He smiled a little at the thought of that, and then remembered where he was.

That Slingshot had started to send gentle yet insistent interrogative feelings over the gestalt bond also helped bring him back to the present. His brothers had been very curious about the feelings that Silverbolt couldn’t hide over the bond, usually timed with his disappearances in the direction of the small apartment the Stunticons shared, or the appearance of Motormaster near them. He had tried to be a bit more subtle, a bit stealthier, but being a member of a combiner team meant that he really didn’t know what it meant to be alone with a single other person. Ultimately, the others had figured it out in their own ways.

Slingshot and Air Raid had grumbled threats about what might happen to a certain truck if he didn’t watch himself, and on more than one occasion Air Raid had actually physically confronted Motormaster, staring at him angrily before leaving without saying a word, withdrawing while pointing to his own optics and then in the direction of the Stunticon leader in a “I’m watching you,” gesture.

Skydive had figured it out first, but had been the most patient about speaking to Silverbolt about it, and had seemed to be more than a little sympathetic. He’d muttered something about not wanting Silverbolt and Motormaster to go through what “they” had, whatever he meant by that.

Fireflight was the problem. At some point he had apparently accumulated a substantial collection of romantic fiction without the others noticing; he had timed his reading to coincide with whatever entertainment the others were consuming, and nobody noticed over the bond. That most of it was human-written was both part of the surprise, and part of the problem; the knowledge he’d absorbed from it seemed to have little to do with Cybertronian relationships and culture, but he insisted on using it to give Silverbolt advice about what to do. Now and then, it actually worked, but Fireflight kept trying to construct elaborate scenarios involving coffee shops and high schools, in spite of frequent reminders that those things didn’t exist on Cybertron.

Fortunately for everyone involved, none of Silverbolt’s brothers had felt the need to inform anyone else about this, and Motormaster had apparently managed to convince his own team to keep quiet about it, assuming they would even care about such fraternization. Certainly, Prowl and the rest of the Autobots were aware that there was more inter-faction interaction now, and had issued a number of warnings about being cautious regarding intelligence, but there was no sign that anyone else knew. So, he was going to try to keep it that way, and maintain his focus on what was in front of him right now.

\-----------------------------------

By Cybertronian standards, the Galactic Council representative was of fairly average height, though her sheer bulk was much greater. Megatron idly noted similarities of form to familiar creatures: the strange combination of hefty central body and oddly lanky legs of Earthling elephants, a few elements that were decidedly horse-like (mainly the neck and hooves), and a head that reminded him of a vapor eel. In general, she bore the hallmarks of those organic species that had naturally evolved to Cybertronian-like stature, rather than through deliberate manipulation, as the numerous bipedal species seemed to have done.

The notion of humans eventually upgrading their species to the size of a Transformer crossed his mind, and and Megatron quickly dismissed it. He had enough things to be irritated by; for example, the very meeting he was attending.

The foremost problem was that he was obliged to sit in close proximity to not only Optimus Prime, but Skyfire as well. This was exacerbated by the fact that he was being recorded, and any missteps in dealing with the Autobot leader and the traitorous shuttlecraft might easily be seen by the Council as cause to bring in their “Peacekeepers”. As most of his forces were presently occupied with developing the defenses of Cybertron and their base on Earth, he could not count on much assistance at the neutral meeting site that had been selected. Not that he was alone with the representative, Skyfire, and Prime; further back in the meeting hall sat an assembly of other interested Cybertronian parties. His own underlings Starscream and Soundwave—he had wanted Shockwave in attendance, but the recently restored mech was still undergoing a battery of tests at his own insistence, to determine the extent of the alterations the Quintessons had made to his frame and his programming—sat together with Prime’s femme, the morbidly colored Elita One and her lieutenant Chromia.

He had never much liked Elita. Their last couple hundred encounters had involved her very nearly terminating him, often with a personal vindictiveness that he still couldn’t fully process. Still, he admired a being who walked around looking like she was covered in spilled innermost energon, a color scheme a step more aggressive and foreboding than his own death-grey plating. While musing on this, he became dimly aware of a change in the representative’s lengthy rambling over details and questioning of the willingness of the Decepticons and the Autobots to maintain a cease-fire, listing the charges and sanctions against the Cybertronian race that they intended to drop and what the conditions were for each, as well as the nature of compensation for the efforts that were under way to liberate citizens of planets belonging to the Galactic Council who were imprisoned on Quintessa.

Now, the subject had changed to the breadth and nature of Cybertronian settlement throughout the galaxy. Megatron decided it was worth-while to start paying attention at this point; he had instructed Soundwave to record and review the discussions for later summarization. He always found it much easier to make a decision once matters had been reduced to the plain language of wartime planning rather than lengthy diplomatic rambling. He met the representative’s eyes as she addressed him and Optimus, short tendrils on her snout gesturing to them as she spoke.

“My understanding is that you are both currently operating out of headquarters located on Sol Three, is that correct?”

“What,” growled Megatron, long since having lost patience with the obtuse nature of the proceedings, but feigning only mild irritation, “are you talking about?”

“That would be 'Earth',” said Skyfire. Somewhat against his own judgement, the scientist had been volunteered to act as a representative of the small number of unaligned Cybertronians. The organics seemed to regard him a bit more favorably because of his lack of involvement in the wars between the Autobots and Decepticons. In contrast to the rising esteem the Galactic Council members held for Skyfire, this role only served to further dim Megatron's views of him. However, it also meant that he sat between Megatron and Optimus Prime in meetings with the Council, and the Decepticon warlord was pleased to have another body between him and his longtime foe turned potential ally.

“Earth?” the representative chuckled, “I have heard of approximately seventy-nine planets whose native designations translated as ‘Earth’. For clarity's sake, let us continue to refer to it as Sol Three.”

“The people of Earth—um, _Sol Three_ —have been more than patient with us,” Optimus interjected, drawing a somewhat irritated glance from the representative. Not seeming to understand, or at least ignoring the expression, he continued, “while our prior conflicts have at times affected their own infrastructure and well-being, the Earth governments have proven time and again that they are pleased to participate in an exchange of resources.”

“Including the establishment of extraterritorial zones under Cybertronian control?” The representative swiped a tendril across her datapad, causing the projected image to change to a split display of several Autobot and Decepticon bases. Megatron noted with some displeasure that several of those included what were supposed to be secret facilities.

“We also have reports indicating that both factions have facilities within the inner debris belt of the Solar System,” she continued, “as well as Autobot-controlled regions in orbit around or upon the surface of Tantalus Five, Opulus, Praum, Elba, Rada Mor, Bk'n, Antilla, Salvvatan Six, and Regulon Four, and Decepticon-controlled regions on or near Tlalak, Varas Centralus, Chaar, Pyrovar, Ijurn, Ceti Alpha Seven, Lucifer, Sol Four AKA ‘ _Mars_ ’, Styx, and Karashi-Delta.”

“The colony on Antilla fell victim to a plague and has since remained uninhabited,” Optimus said, “but that is otherwise correct.”

“And we ceased operations on Tlalak deca-cycles ago,” continued Megatron, still somewhat sore about the loss of the large energy stores on the watery planet, though more comfortable about it after he learned that the moronic computer he had left behind had for some reason decided that organic life-forms were a worthwhile source of power. Any future operations would need to be overseen by someone who at least had enough of a spark to be trusted with making competent decisions.

“In addition,” the representative changed the display to a series of shifting displays of other planets, marked by vaguely Cybertronian cityscapes, “we understand that there are unaligned colonies of Cybertronian origin on planets designated as Omnitron, Paradron, Velocitron, Gigantion, and Combatron.”

Megatron and Optimus both turned to look at Skyfire, their optics flashing in surprise. He shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable with the sudden attention, and spoke hesitantly, “I've been to Gigantion, Omnitron, and Velocitron, and I've met with explorers who had been to Combatron... but I've never heard of a 'Paradron'. Are you certain there's a colony there?”

The representative squinted and curled her tendrils inward, an expression that likely indicated suspicion. “You deny knowledge of the existence of the Cybertronian civilization on Paradron, in the Vespa system?”

“The Vespa... no Cybertronian vessel has been even half that far!” exclaimed Skyfire. “I wonder, could I have a look at the Council's data on that planet?”

Now the representative shuffled in place uncomfortably. Megatron could barely contain a smirk; in spite of all their overtures of cooperation, the Galactic Council had been incredibly reluctant to share any information with them, affirming that they would share details ‘ _as deemed necessary to manage the threat posed by the Quintessons._ ’ However, this was data on the location of one of Cybertron's own colonies. Under the Council's own regulations, they would be obligated to hand it over.

“Yes,” Megatron leaned forward, putting on an expression he had found was just the right combination of intimidating and amiable. Perhaps this meeting could be salvaged from the depths of boredom, after all. “I am certain that the Galactic Council would not deny us the opportunity to reestablish peaceful contact.”

The representative tapped a series of commands on her datapad, and the information was transmitted to displays before Megatron, Skyfire, and Optimus. By the reactions from behind him, he guessed that the others could view it, as well. It was indeed rather curious; a planet so distant from Cybertron, yet apparently established as a colony since the early days of the war. A decently large population, ostensibly Autobots but affirming their neutrality, little in the way of planetary defenses, energy stores measured at…

Megatron’s optics flared, and he nearly leapt out of his seat to get a better look. By the gasps and murmurs from the others, they had noticed the same thing he had. The meeting was certainly no longer boring.

\-----------------------------------

Literal worlds away, another meeting was taking place between representatives of the Autobots, Decepticons, and an intergovernmental organization representing numerous distinct cultures. Here, however, those assembled were feeling much less hostile towards each other. At least, that was what Jazz was hoping, as he stood adjacent to the perpetually grumpy Decepticon named Thundercracker. It was no secret that the blue elite Seeker was contemptuous of ground-modes, but in Jazz's experience as head of Autobot Special Ops., “TC” was also one of the most sympathetic members of the entire Decepticon army. While this made it odd that he was in a trine with the power-hungry Starscream and bluntly loyal Skywarp, it also made him the Con that Jazz was most relieved to see as his opposite number at the summit that had been called on Earth. That three of Reflector's bodies had joined him wasn't too unusual; Jazz had invited Hound, Bumblebee, and Brawn along. What did surprise him was the interest that Reflector showed in a sculpture outside the auditorium where they were assembled, a complex abstract piece that obviously held no tactical significance.

The humans were understandably nervous; most of them hadn't learned to tell one Cybertronian from another, and Decepticons and Autobots alike were seen as pretty scary. That was half the reason that Jazz's companions included two minibots, whose near-human stature seemed to put the little organics at ease. Jazz envied that. It would have been nice if he could just stroll around, to simply walk into any human buildings he liked without complicated subspace shifting to fit through doors, to be among humans without inspiring terror. Bumblebee was especially popular with the humans, who seemed to view the little spy as charmingly childish. When Jazz asked Spike about it, the human had eventually come to the conclusion that it was because Bee's coloration was so bright and cheery. Jazz chalked that one up to cultural differences, since Bumblebee's vivid yellow and infrared markings (a dull black to human optics, apparently) were more recognizable as camouflage in the energy conductor ducts and Cybertronian power plants that he'd spent dozens of vorns pilfering from right under the Decepticon's faceplates.

Now, Bumblebee was turning that charm and expertise in finding his way into places towards meeting with some of the human representatives. Relatively few actual officials from the Earth governments were in attendance in person, most of them teleconferencing in (mainly via technology gifted to them by the Autobots, though Jazz noted the characteristic distortion of Decepticon communications technology on a few of the feeds). However, American, Canadian, Iranian, Japanese, British, Dutch, and Chinese representatives had come forward to greet them in person. The Iranian leader in particular had stepped forward, and addressed Jazz.

“I had been hoping to see my friends the Aerialbots in attendance,” he said, looking around, smiling warmly at some of the other Cybertronians. He looked Jazz over, and quirked an eyebrow. “But it is good to meet an Autobot with such excellent taste in cars.”

“Begging your pardon, royal dude?” Jazz said, a bit surprised. He was more fond of Earth culture than most, but hadn't thought of himself as a fan of their vehicles beyond what his own alternate mode could do.

“Your robot mode,” the human—Prince Jumal, Jazz recalled—explained, “I can see parts of a familiar vehicle. Your trans-form is a Porsche 935... 935/76, I believe?”

“Right on the nose,” Jazz replied, smiling as he brought a digit to his nasal ridge. Unseen behind his visor, his optics scanned Thundercracker's activity. The Decepticon was bent down on one knee to address a human, a surprisingly respectful gesture for him.

“General Clayton Abernathy,” the human speaking to TC said, his words picked out by Jazz's sensitive audials even as he carried on his own casual conversation with the Prince, discussing the habits of the Aerialbots and their recent string of visits to Iran. “Also called 'Hawk'. You're Thundercracker, right?”

“Yes,” replied Thundercracker, pausing a moment before asking very quietly, “you're his superior, right?”

The human nodded, and said in a hushed tone, “Wild Bill is recovering nicely. He'll be back in the air in no time, thanks to your help.”

“Don't make a big deal of it,” Thundercracker replied, scratching at his helmet in embarrassment. “Reflector and I, we just didn't like what those guys were doing to the landscape. And they're cruddy fliers, too.”

One of the Reflector bodies had walked into Jazz's line of sight, and nodded conspiratorially to Thundercracker.

“I’ll let Bill know his flying impressed you, then?” Hawk asked.

“Whatever,” Thundercracker muttered, “yeah.”

An announcer declared that the meeting was about to begin and asked those assembled to be seated, so the four Autobots and two (or four, Jazz was never quite sure how to count Reflector) Decepticons walked to the center of a dais and stood waiting, while humans gathered behind long tables in a semicircle around them. The monitors and cameras interspersed between them, though displaying patiently waiting human leaders, still made the room feel rather empty, and Jazz was acutely aware of the proximity of the Cons. Though both sides had consented to disarm within a specified range of the site of the summit, and their subspace access had been checked—surprisingly, human innovations were behind that—Jazz knew well how easily Thundercracker could turn the site into a slaughterhouse through mere unarmed attacks. Granted, he knew that because he'd ran the simulations in his processor the moment he entered, but he told himself it was only to be prepared for any eventuality.

A human speaker began his introductory statements, asking Jazz and the other Cybertronians to state their names, factions, and positions within those factions. Autotranslation systems based on Cybertronian tech interpreted it all across well over a hundred Earth languages, and television cameras focused on Jazz, Hound,  Brawn, Bumblebee, and then Reflector, whose multiple bodies caused a bit of confusion, leading to a bit of delay before finally moving on to Thundercracker's introduction. Jazz perceived it all on his HUD and via his internal sensors, the numerous signals easy enough to pick out of the air or identify as they traced along wires and cables. It was remarkable how little humans could pick up on with even their most sensitive instruments, though Jazz's sense of duty and millennia of experience reminded him that it wasn't a good idea to share with them just how much he knew.

The Autobots being esteemed by humanity at large, and the Decepticons being mostly seen as mechanical terrorists, it fell to Jazz to speak first.

“The long and short of it is,” he began, keeping his tone more respectful than he usually did, “we encountered a hostile alien power that poses a threat to all Cybertronian life, Autobot and Decepticon alike. We know them as the Quintessons.”

At this point, Bumblebee set up a low-resolution holomatter display of a group of Quints, borrowed from Shockwave's files. Jazz continued, “they claim to be the creators of our race. Now, I can't say if that's true or ain't, but they believe it, and they want to make slaves out of the lot of us to use to take over other worlds. On account of all of us disliking that idea, the Autobots and the Decepticons have entered into a truce, at least until the Quintessons are no longer a threat.”

Now, Bumblebee changed the display to an image that had been recorded of Optimus and Megatron standing together before a group of Galactic Council peacekeepers.

“We're not alone in this,” Jazz said, and gestured to the holomatter image. “the Galactic Council, a group of allied planets and colonies who previously didn't want anything to do with us, has offered to help out so long as we keep things groovy and only fight the Quintessons. Since the Quintessons have been attacking citizens of Council planets, and we showed we're mighty good at fighting Quints, they figured we'd be the best for the job, you dig?”

The speaker nodded, and shuffled some papers in front of him. “Commander Jazz, you understand that while the Autobots have been of great assistance to humanity at large—the numerous technological developments you've shared, your work in disaster relief and peacekeeping, even efforts to prevent volcanic eruptions at your Mount Saint Helens facilities—the Decepticons have committed numerous criminal acts against the nations of Earth. To simply accept that your respective factions have decided to cooperate and that the Decepticon forces should be allowed to act as they wish, is simply not reasonable.”

“Mister Speaker,” Jazz nodded gesturing broadly, “I totally understand. And we're not asking you to accept that, we know how you feel. Heck, we get that there are even folks here who don't trust us Autobots, either. Which is why we're making some concessions.”

Thundercracker moved forward, drawing a few murmurs of nervousness from those assembled.

“I have been authorized,” he said, speaking as if trying to recall a hastily memorized script, “to share intelligence and resources with the people of Earth, on behalf of the Decepticons and our lord Megatron. The packets you received earlier outline these, and we are prepared to negotiate further concessions if deemed necessary. It is the wish of the Decepticons to enter into a peaceful relationship with humanity.”

That last line sounded ad-libbed to Jazz, but he was soon distracted by the speaker questioning Thundercracker on the nature of the Decepticon offers. He wasn't sure whose hand was behind it; perhaps Shockwave, who had returned from Quintessa with not only a new face and hands, but an improved attitude that Jazz hadn't seen for a long time. He'd managed to convince Megatron of the necessity of a lot of their recent actions, making everything they would give up sound like another victory for the Decepticons, rather than a long list of apologies for blowing up and stealing so much human property.

“It has been brought to my attention,” the speaker said, eyes moving over a document in front of him, “that in the time that the Decepticons have been active on earth, there have been remarkably few fatalities that can be attributed to the actions of your forces. This is not to say that we deny the fatal potential of Decepticon activities on Earth, as the prevention of many of those fatalities may be attributed to the actions of the Autobots and human rescue workers, military, and police forces.”

“Um, regarding that,” Thundercracker cleared his oral circuits with a staticky crackle and switching back into ‘prepared speech’ tones, “we are willing, as part of our concessions to the people of Earth and in the interest of maintaining peace in the face of possible external threats, to leave a contingent of Decepticon forces on Earth, under the direct supervision of the Autobots and whatever human forces are deemed appropriate.”

That surprised Jazz, too. Again, likely one of Shockwave's ideas, but what Decepticons would consent to letting humans boss them around?

“Additionally,” Thundercracker continued, still sounding like he was reading something, perhaps a file saved on his cerebral processor, “we are prepared to assist in the peaceful expansion of Earth's control over its local region of space, to better utilize and protect the natural resources of the Solar System. If you turn to, uh, page 56, of those packets, we've outlined our observations of mineral resources on Mars, in the Asteroid belt, and potential methods for carbon collection operations on Jupiter to gather industrial-grade diamonds—”

“I, excuse me,” interrupted the speaker, leaning forward. "Did you say _diamonds?_ On _Jupiter?_ Mister Thundercracker, you are aware that Jupiter is a _gas_ planet? Meaning that it has no solid surface?”

“Well, yeah," Thundercracker replied, genuinely surprised by the question. “But, you know, those usually have carbon rain. The lightning storms turn methane to soot, right?”

Jazz realized that Thundercracker was looking at him and Reflector for confirmation. He nodded. “That's about right, Mister Speaker. Near as I get, planets like your Jupiter and Saturn are big enough that the atmospheric pressure compresses the soot down into diamonds. Not anything you'd put on a ring, but they should be good for drill bits and the like.”

It was basic exoplanetary atmospheric science, the kind of thing you needed to know if you planned to put a craft anywhere near the mesosphere of an unexplored planet. It was easy to forget, though, how little the humans knew about such things. They had taken to muttering amongst themselves now, and on the video feeds he could see officials and leaders of nations talking with their aides. From what his sensors could pick up, they suddenly seemed a lot more interested in helping out the Decepticons.

Sometimes, it could be amazing what a little greed could do.

\-----------------------------------

Shockwave was in heaven and hell at the same time. For tens of thousands of vorns, he’d been almost entirely without emotion, limited to vague and mild feelings like disappointment or satisfaction. Anger, joy, and sorrow were unfamiliar to him; even the feeling he’d come to regard as annoyance was a faint buzzing in comparison to what he was now enduring, waiting for the scanners to finish working. More than once, he caught sight of the reflection of his restored faceplate, his real head in the polished metal of the scanning mechanism as it passed over him, and was tempted each time to reach up and feel it, to remind himself that this was real. That he had his own face, his own hands again.

There was an abrupt buzz as the scans completed, and he was filled with elation, finding himself up and on his pedes before he realized that he was standing up. Elation was quickly shot through with a cold chill of dread, that the scan had found something wrong, followed by relief as a review of the screen—with two optics, _Primus he had missed having depth perception_ —proving that there were only minor undesired alterations remaining in his programming and physical structure, remnants that would have no effect on his continued functioning.

The scan had taken longer than anticipated to set up, however, due to the complication of not having recent data on his own processors that did not account for his long-damaged state. On top of this (the thought making him slump back from his previously triumphant posture), he couldn’t be sure that his emotional state wasn’t interfering with his reading of the data.

The problem was, there was next to nobody he could ask to help him look at the information. The Constructicons were competent medics and engineers, but lacked an understanding of anatomy and neuroprogramming; his own underlings were capable in their own ways, but not for the task at hand. He considered consulting with Bitstream, but the information engineer’s specialty was non-sapient computing. There was only one option, and he’d been hoping not to have to deal with that for a little while.

“A little while, yes,” he muttered to himself, “say, thirty or forty vorns. That should have been quite long enough. But...”

He vented air from between gritted dentae. He would have to consult with the Autobots. Copying the data to a pad, he exited the lab and began the walk to the area of the Autobots had temporarily co-opted of Decepticon Headquarters. Discussions on what to do about that were were currently on hold; there were too many other matters to deal with, and if there was anything that Cybertronians had plenty of, it was time. As he walked through the halls, he passed one of the newer Decepticons, by the odd name of Drag Strip. Shockwave smiled warmly at him, and the young mech jumped back in surprise, then dashed around a corner. Shockwave shook his head, turned a corner in the opposite direction, and collided chest-first with Perceptor.

“Oh my,” Perceptor began, stumbling backwards. “My apologies, I—”

“My fault,” Shockwave replied, his systems overheating with embarrassment, covering his face with one servo as the sensitive plating turned fever red. “I was hoping I would run into you. Oh, not—not that literally, I mean…”

“I understand,” Perceptor nodded, then held his gaze down at the pad in Shockwave’s grip. “And if I might hazard a guess, that would be the results of an analysis of the modifications recently performed on your structure and systems, that you are hoping to have another scientist review to ensure that your perceptions thereof are not biased in some manner? Being as you are the premier researcher among the Decepticons and any others who might be nearly as qualified are off-planet for the time being, you must be here to request the assistance of an Autobot.”

Shockwave’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed. How many times had he performed an on-the-spot analysis of another Cybertronian, and how many times had he ignored how incredibly annoying it was? To be picked apart with a glance and not allowed to speak for one’s own self. But then, Perceptor was known even to the Decepticons for placing analysis over empathy, much like Shockwave had been. Unlike Shockwave, however, Perceptor had never had someone else literally take apart his processor and rewrite it to induce such behavior. It was simply how the Autobot was sparked. It might be an interesting topic for research, once he had the time. It has been far too long since he had researched something simply because it was interesting, and not because it could advance the Decepticon cause in some way, for some reason other than it being the next most rational step. But for the time being, Perceptor was not a research subject, he was simply another Cybertronian standing in front of Shockwave.

“Yes,” replied Shockwave, after what he realized must have been an embarrassingly long pause, his systems heating as his processors began to dwell on the feeling of shame. “Perhaps, if you have a moment…?”

“I do, however,” Perceptor replied, holding up the datapads in his own hand, “I do not have both hands free.”

“Oh, of course! May I?” Shockwave extended his free hand to take the pads from Perceptor, passing his own analysis to the red Autobot. As he did, he glanced down at what Perceptor had been carrying. It was a set of plans for upgrades for the frames of the three immature Cybertronians the Female Autobots had been watching over. There was so much the young ones were going to need to know, so much that couldn’t be related through new programming. In past vorns, it had been the standard to give a sort of “crash course”, teaching the relatively few new Decepticons what they needed to know in the simplest terms, covering the basics of history, language, and other fields so far as they related to warfare. It was a matter of expediency and desperation, and even in his previously emotionless state, Shockwave had felt something like regret over it.

“Congratulations,” Perceptor said, looking up from the datapad, “according to these results, barring some minor cosmetic damage and short-term emotional strain, you may be the healthiest Cybertronian I’ve ever reviewed. Of course, there may be details that a medical engineer would quibble over, but in my opinion you have nothing whatsoever to worry about.”

Shockwave looked at the pad in Perceptor’s hands, and the ones he was holding.

“The children,” Shockwave said. “I think that I ought to worry about the children." 


	2. Commencement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin.
> 
> "There has been achievement, joy, good times. And there has been grief. There's been loss. Some people who should be here today, aren't. But we are. Journeys end. And what is a journey? Is it just distance traveled? Time spent? No. It's what happens on the way, it's the things that shape you. At the end of the journey you're not the same. Today is about change. Graduation doesn't just mean your circumstances change, it means you do. You ascend, to a higher level. Nothing will ever be the same. Nothing."  
> \-- Mayor Richard Wilkins III. Buffy the Vampire Slayer, "Graduation Day"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait, folks! Some of it was old-fashioned writer's block, some of it was outside circumstances. Thanks for all the kudos on the first chapter.

It had been several weeks since the upgrade ceremony was announced, but for all the excitement and feelings of frayed wires leading up to it, it might as well have been mere hours. Indeed, now that the ceremony was under way, some of the assembled Autobots were audibly griping about how _fast_ everything moved lately, and there was some of the usual background grumbling about doing things on “human time” that was usually kept hushed up and behind closed doors back on Earth. But here on Cybertron, the Autobots felt more than welcome to voice their complaints. The Decepticons did too, though they tended to quiet down and change subjects when approached by anyone wearing an Autobrand. Well, with ten notable exceptions.

Skydive glanced across the large table to that group of ten, and pondered the reasons they stood out. The five Stunticons had been seated directly across from him and his fellow Aerialbots, and just like his brothers, the members of the Decepticon ground team were millennia younger than almost all other Cybertronians. Even the three immature sparklings who were to be upgraded to their adult bodyframes at the ceremony still had many vorns of experience over the combiner teams, though their actual level of maturity was far different.

Like the Aerialbots and even the Protectobots (who were seated further down the same side as Skydive’s brothers, having gotten permission to use the space bridge for a brief visit away from their regular duties), the Stunticons were accustomed to the fast pace of Earthly life simply because they had never known anything else. Time spent among the older Cybertronians quickly revealed a generation gap; when Ironhide or Prowl talked about getting used to something “in time” or learning the reasons for some of the prevailing opinions among the Autobots “after a while”, the unspoken assumption was that this meant “a couple dozen vorns or so”.

With regular maintenance and parts replacement, Transformers were functionally immortal, or at least seemed that way compared to other races, and the older generations seemed prone to forgetting what it was like to be newly sparked. They had time to spare, and for a great many things in life, they had no expectations that things would change within a few months or a year. Indeed, adapting to human expectations of project timelines was sometimes an issue back on Earth, and was the cause of more than one headache for the Autobots’ human allies.

But while the Stunticons were generally open to talking about things with the Aerialbots due to their shared youth (and, increasingly, the insistence of their respective leaders on gathering together), the group ahead of them at the table was a bit more difficult to explain. The Seeker team of Windsong, Bladewing, and Moonrise was comparatively young, yes; Skydive had recently attended the branding ceremony at which the trine had received their proper insignias, earned during the recent Quintesson crisis. They were… _arguably_ more mature. Certainly more experienced. But they seemed to lack impulse control, especially Moonrise, who was prone to continuing to talk about things that others might have deemed inappropriate. At times, Skydive was amazed that the Decepticon wasn’t designated a security risk. He asked Starscream about it, once.

“The only way Moonrise could be a security risk,” said Starscream, barely looking up from his data pad, “would be if we _trusted_ him with anything secure.”

The last pair was the biggest surprise. In the past few weeks, Skydive had had the opportunity to visit with the trio of sparklings—Arcee, Hot Rod, and Springer—a number of times, primarily to observe the preparations for their upgrades. He had also made a number of visits in his off time, for the sheer novelty of spending time with younger Cybertronians, particularly ones who were soon to have the equivalent of a major growth spurt.

During that time, he had witnessed this particular Decepticon duo make a number of efforts to visit peaceably: Blitzwing and Astrotrain. The two had shown a strong interest in the care and upgrading of Springer, as a fellow triple-changer. Not only had they been the first Decepticons to volunteer to look over the sparklings, but they had made frequent visits to the lab and medbay while the preparations for the upgrades were under way. They had expressed a number of concerns, addressed mainly to Perceptor, who appeared strangely sympathetic to the pair of Decepticons. In fact, it occurred to Skydive that Blitzwing and Astrotrain seemed to go out of their way to speak to Perceptor about Springer, even when it would be more convenient to talk to someone else.

While he was assisting the engineering team, there had been several occasions when he had exited a laboratory only to almost collide with the enormous bulk of the duo. The first time, it had been more than a little frightening.

“Watch where you're-” Blitzwing had begun, then settled suddenly, Astrotrain's servo on his shoulder. “Uh, sorry. We were wondering if Perceptor's inside.”

“He's just wrapping something up,” Skydive replied. “He'll be out in a minute.”

“Oh, okay.” Blitzwing replied, and he and Astrotrain stood still, waiting but relaxed. After a moment, Skydive's curiosity got the better of him.

“Is there anything I can help with?” he asked. “I've been working very closely with Perceptor.”

Skydive suddenly became very conscious of the sheer size of the two triple-changers as they stared down at him, before looking at each other, then him again. Blitzwing vented air.

“We were kinda worried,” Blitzwing said, “about the kid's cross-axial interchange.”

“Yeah,” Astrotrain added, and nothing more.

“Oh, his-” Skydive paused. By all accounts, the two Decepticons were not among the brightest of their faction. But the cross-axial interchange was a highly sophisticated system, to the point that Perceptor had effectively told him 'look but don't touch'. The senior scientist wasn't trusting anyone else with calibrating it, and made a noise like an overworked cooling fan every time the others working on the upgrades made some new minor change, insisting that he would have to run another series of tests to make sure it functioned correctly.

Blitzwing and Astrotrain were looking down at him. _Looming_ down at him.

“Perceptor has been handling it personally,” he explained, hoping that it would defer them from asking about a system he himself barely understood. He managed to push out the words, his processor running the same vocabulary subroutines it did when he had to present something to a superior who was asking questions he couldn't answer. In short, 'cover my own aft' mode. “I understand that its compatibility with other systems is one of his foremost concerns.”

That seemed to satisfy them, and the two Decepticons nodded to one another, glanced around, and departed. In the days that followed, they would frequently return with other questions, all of them very specific, and often about aspects of the upgrade that Skydive himself found difficult to grasp. On a couple occasions, Astrotrain had actually cleared up something Skydive misunderstood, explaining in simpler language matters that Perceptor had related in advanced technical jargon.

A number of these visits wound up featuring appearances by Perceptor himself, who conceded to share some of the blueprints with the Decepticons and permit them entry into the lab while he worked on Springer's upgrades. When Skydive asked about a possible security risk, Perceptor barely looked up to reply.

“Anything that our irregular audience may be able to discern from these schematics is a datum with which they would already be quite well acquainted,” he explained, pushing a slider in increments and watching the change in simulated performance on a monitor. “Their comprehension is limited to such matters as any Cybertronian should intuit regarding their own construction and capabilities, including specific concerns as to multiple alternate modes. No more, no less.”

Further discussions proved what Perceptor had been trying to explain in too many words—that the triple-changers' lives had given them a detailed knowledge of issues faced by those with more than two modes, but little else; they seemed confused by some technical aspects Skydive had thought were elementary, while having an almost instinctual grasp of other concerns. Psychological and social issues came up on occasion, but Perceptor seemed to want to keep those quieter, and Skydive frequently found himself assigned to deliver some documents or review some computations in another room when the Decepticons brought these up.

It thus came as no surprise that they had been reviewing data on Springer’s upgrades up to the moment they were seated for the ceremony, asking Skydive questions about technical details they didn’t _quite_ grasp even now as Rumble tried to drag them towards their seats, the Recordicon having somehow been wrangled into organizational duties.

Skydive still wasn’t sure what exactly Perceptor had said to be able to get permission to share the data with them; Prowl and Ironhide had been very concerned with avoiding much in the way of fraternizing and information exchange due to the possibility of renewed hostilities, but there had been a cycle when Perceptor had entered Prowl’s office with a very stern look on his face. Whatever he had said was too quiet to make out (though Prowl raised his voice loud enough to be heard outside several times, mostly the expected objections about security and risk), but eventually Perceptor had exited with a relieved expression and simply asked Skydive to follow along and help him with some atmospheric simulations for the computer model of Springer’s aerial mode.

Out of the corner of his optics, Skydive saw Frenzy and Rumble take their own seats at last. A number of tables—large enough to provide space not only for numerous ordinary Cybertronians, but larger individuals as well—had been set up in one of the few auditoriums in this part of Cybertron that had survived the war, a former outdoor theater.

In the center of the space was a platform that once served as a performance stage, and now had the three young Autobots gathered upon raised seats, excitedly fidgeting and being fussed over by the few mature Cybertronians actively participating in the ceremony: the esteemed Elita One, and a pair of her soldiers whose names Skydive did not know, one green and the other orange. Elita was clad in a purple cape, which drew some murmurs from the Autobots present.

Skydive did not know Alpha Trion, except as a disembodied consciousness briefly met when he was brought online. The elder Autobot had sacrificed his physical form to act as a new key to the Vector Sigma supercomputer, ensuring further Cybertronian life could be created. Apparently the cape had belonged to him; Elita One had lately taken to wearing it for official functions, and her appearances in it seemed to put some of the older Autobots on edge. The best hypothesis he could muster was that it was another morbid touch to her appearance, already covered in the color of spilled vital fuel.

At last, a trumpet blast—played on actual metal instruments, rather than a recording—signified the start of the ceremony. Elita One turned and stepped to the edge of the stage, the cape swirling and billowing in a very impressive manner that was no doubt deliberate.

“Friends, comrades, allies,” she said, and in turn smiled and nodded towards a group of tables that consisted mostly of members of her own Autobot cell, then towards the one Optimus Prime shared with his closest confidantes (and, in a surprising turn, a number of humans), and at last towards Megatron's group, including an oddly fidgety Shockwave.

She continued, “this is a momentous occasion. For the first time in myriavorns, we gather to see young Cybertronians to adulthood, not in secrecy as bitter enemies, but as a people united against a common foe. These three—Springer, Arcee, Hot Rod—will become adults not in the midst of a war between our people, but in the light of the optics of Cybertronians who are working together for the betterment of our people.”

Skydive's gaze drifted back behind Elita One as she continued with her prepared speech. Each of the three sparklings was standing in front of a specially prepared chair, outfitted with numerous ports, panels, and connectors. When the time came, it would be much like a transformation, albeit assisted by the mechanisms in the chair rather than performed independently. Parts would be replaced, extended, altered, and added so seamlessly that all but the most advanced optics would be unable to follow the actual engineering of it, the change seeming more fluid than mechanical.

“...and now, it falls to me to ask,” Elita One turned, having finished her own performance and beginning the more traditional aspect. She faced the bulky green youth, and said, “Springer, Arcee, Hot Rod. Do you swear to uphold the values of Cybertron, to uphold rightful order and enact change when necessary, to work towards the survival and growth of our people?”  
Almost simultaneously—Hot Rod lagging by a noticeable fraction—they replied, “I do.”

“You have each been asked to choose a function, which has been incorporated into your new drivers. For those gathered here now, please state it.”

“Aerial—“ Springer began, interrupted by Hot Rod blurting _“Cavalier!”_ before he could finish, “...Defense.”

The green child pouted impressively enough that it was visible from Skydive's seat, while Hot Rod appeared to be grinning sheepishly. Arcee, as shockingly colored as Elita One herself, unsurprisingly said, “Gunner.”

“All worthy functions, all valued contributions to the advancement of Cybertron,” Elita One said, albeit through slightly gritted dentae as she turned her gaze to Hot Rod. Apparently, someone had let the boy get his servos on some romantic historical texts from Earth, and had picked something rooted in human culture. Skydive had been witness to a heated debate over the exact translation of the word and how to incorporate it into his new programming and components. “Be seated, and be transformed.”

The process was as expected. Light beamed out from opened seals as three small bodies began to stretch and expand, the pliable memory metal of their faces extending as if in a comical expression, but remaining neutral and calm as updated software was beamed into their processors to accommodate the new components that were slid up into place from below. Wires and actuators looped up from the chairs to lock into place, concealed by clever positioning as part of the artistry and ritual of the upgrade. Indeed, the time spent working on the upgrades could have been easily cut in half if it didn't need to be _nice-looking_. But seeing it all come together like this, even with his meager contributions, Skydive was proud.

That feeling mixed with wonder—and a touch of envy—over the gestalt bond with his brothers. The Aerialbots had been built as adults. Remnants of semi-aware systems from the vehicles that were used as raw materials for their bodies mean they had some rudimentary memories of an earlier life, but unknowable ages of existence as an aircraft with little outside of object recognition software and autodiagnostic systems were not comparable to a real childhood.

The mood across the bond turned as the upgrade finished, Skydive's fellow Aerialbots now simply impressed with the sight before them. Three full-grown Autobots now sat before the audience, and as the manipulators on the chairs retracted, they stood on hesitant new legs. A rotor blade on Springer's back twitched slightly, unfamiliar gears being tested. Arcee placed a finger to the brow of her helmet, and a battle visor slid down. And Hot Rod...

Hot Rod let out a whoop, and jumped off the stage, transforming mid-leap into a vehicle that combined Cybertronian style with Earth-adapted engineering. Hitting the aisle between the tables with a thud that shook those nearest nearly out of their seats, he completely failed to move any further as he went into reverse and collided with the stage wall behind him. Reverting to his new root mode, he put on an embarrassed smile.  
“Sorry,” the red cavalier said in a newly deepened voice, “guess I got a little overexcited!”

Elita One seemed about to say something, but a chant began to build as Springer and Arcee stepped forward.

“Transform. Transform. **Transform,** ” repeated the less responsible members of the crowd. Blitzwing and Astrotrain were practically climbing onto the table as they directed their own chanting towards Springer. The two remade youths looked to Elita One, who slumped almost imperceptibly, and then nodded.

Arcee's transformation was fast and precise, not extending anything too far out or opening up any vulnerable points. It was an efficient transformation, designed to ensure that she did not need to waste time with making space for her vehicle mode. Springer's was all about the sudden shifting of bulky parts, his vehicle components moving like a hammer being swung. Both of them shifted into ground vehicles, adapted for Earth and planets like it, but not disguised as a particular native vehicle. The pair rolled back and forth on the stage a bit, while Hot Rod clambered back up, and the metal-on-metal sound of hundreds of Cybertronian hands clapping together began to rise.

“THIRD MODE!” Astrotrain bellowed over the applause, while Blitzwing whooped and gestured excitedly in Springer's direction. The newly adult triple-changer obliged, his rotor assembly appearing and wheels folding in as he took on a helicopter mode and lifted up into the air. He shook briefly, then seemed to stabilize as he accounted for his added weight.

The two Decepticons began cheering even more loudly over the upgrade of the young Autobot, and as Skydive looked around, he saw 'Bots and 'Cons sharing tables and—if perhaps a bit hesitantly—smiles. Although the upgrade ceremony was for a trio of Autobots, the Decepticons were welcomed to participate, in what Optimus Prime had declared as a gesture of good faith.

The same had gone for the humans seated with Optimus: not only those honorary Autobots who frequented the base back on Earth, but several others Skydive did not recognize save for their formal dress signifying membership in the armed forces of several Earth nations.

The applause died down as Arcee and Springer returned to their robot modes, and Elita One raised her servos.

“Now,” she said, raising her volume, “it is customary for the newly upgraded to enter into adulthood by joining their fellow Cybertronians for a meal, and mingling!”

At this, a series of lights came on, revealing a set of long tables to either side of the auditorium where various fuel and energy containers had been arranged in large stacks. Many among those assembled began to rise, heading either for other tables to speak with friends, or to queue up for some energy.

“That's our cue,” said Blitzwing, and stepped back from the table. “I'll go flag down the kid and Percy, you get us some grub.”

He shoved Astrotrain towards the fuel, and made his way in the direction of Springer, who had stepped down and was speaking with Perceptor near the stage's base. Arcee had somehow managed to cross the distance between the stage and Optimus's table without Skydive seeing her get there, and Hot Rod was trailing behind as Elita One very deliberately moved in the same direction through the increasingly active audience.

When he turned his gaze back to the table, Skydive saw that Windsong's trine had gotten up as a group to raid the refreshments, Moonrise in the lead and drawing attention as usual.

“We'll— _I'll_ go get us some fuel,” said Silverbolt, getting up at the same time as Motormaster, embarrassment pinging over the bond. It increased as Hot Spot strode over to join Silverbolt, the Protectobot leader casting a quizzical and suspicious glare at the Stunticon commander.

Skydive sighed. The nascent relationship between Silverbolt and Motormaster had caught the notice of several others on Cybertron, but Hot Spot and the rest of the Protectobots had been privy only to the vital news as they managed emergency situations on Earth. And Hot Spot was an excellent warrior and leader, but he was also the type to let his daemons do the processing and act without really thinking.

Motormaster, for his part, seemed wholly ignorant of Hot Spot's gaze, and began walking at Silverbolt's side, while the shuttle-turned-jet seemed to be doing his best to simultaneously shrink into nothingness and stand between his fellow Autobot and the object of his attention. Just as they lined up (Silverbolt making some inaudible comments and furtive gesturing that managed to transmit over the gestalt bond as _get between/keep peace_ ), a familiar pair stepped up to the table. Skydive looked up to the smiling faces of Ratchet and Wheeljack. Well, Ratchet was smiling, while the glow of Wheeljack's optics was focused in a thin band to create the appearance of “smiling eyes”.

“How you kids like the show?” asked Wheeljack, lifting up a platter with numerous small energy containers and snacks. “Mind if we join ya?”

A chorus of halfhearted welcomes and mumbles was the reply, even from the Stunticons. Well, most of the mumbling was from Dead End. The two sat down, and their gazes passed over the twelve younger combiners. After a moment of awkward silence, Ratchet cleared static from his voice box.

“We, uh,” he started, looking more to Wheeljack, and pausing to drink from a green-glowing beverage that Skydive hadn't noticed him holding until now, “we wanted to check on you all. Because, all things considered, you know-”

“We figured you might be feeling left out,” finished Wheeljack. “On account of none of you got an upgrade ceremony of your own.”

More mumbling, and a long, drawn-out vent from Breakdown.

“Well, yeah!” said the blue and white Stunticon. “Why don't we get that? Somebody have something against us? We not Cybertronian enough?”

“Huh? Nah, nah. That ain't it,” replied Wheeljack, while Ratchet continued to drink his frightening-looking fuel.

“Then,” asked Slingshot, “why? I mean, we've already got adult bodies, but we haven't been around that long.”

“Kinda feels like we're more kids than they are,” mused Groove. “Like, we're adults, but we haven't had the time to _mature_ , right?”

“Well, with you lot,” Ratchet gestured lazily, _liquidly_ at the assembled combiner teams, “Vector Sigma did all the work. Normally in a laser core, a personality component gets _just a bit_ of programming from the spark. So, newly made robots won't be too sophisticated. They're a lot like human children in that way.”

“So,” Skydive mused, looking to Arcee and Hot Rod, who had joined Springer and were laughing at something Astrotrain had said, “they need time to get new information, from their environment?”

“Exactly right,” replied Ratchet. "They learn and grow, and their personalities are programmed heuristically.”

“Who-whatsit-ly?”

“It means they learn to solve problems based on experiences,” Wheeljack interjected, holding up a dish of pink-glowing rectangular chips, which he held out to the younger mechanoids. “Here, try 'em. They're some kinda energon goodies.”

“In your case, Optimus and Megatron wanted you to be ready right away,” Ratchet said, snatching up a goodie with his free servo as the tray passed him, and inspecting it without actually consuming it. He used it to gesture as he continued, “so, while your personality components still have plenty of space for heuristic development, Vector Sigma also booted you with personality data equivalent to someone on their first or second upgrade.”

“And your Dinobots didn't get that,” mumbled Dead End, nursing the tip of an energon goodie while the others happily swallowed theirs down, “so they've had t'tough it out and act hard even though they're just big babies on the inside?”

Ratchet and Wheeljack's optics flared slightly at that, and Skydive was sure his did, too. Sympathy for the Dinobots was rare enough among the Autobots, to say nothing of the Decepticons or the famously self-interested Stunticons.

“Well,” Ratchet sighed, looking into his nearly empty drink. “Kind of. We put as much into their personalities as we could, and Wheeljack's memory upgrades helped a lot.”

“Maybe this truce between the Bots and Cons will give 'em time to ease up and be kids,” said Wheeljack, leaning back in his seat. “Being on edge all the time ain't good for a new mech.”

He looked at the twelve before him, and then up as their leaders returned.

“Hey, that's our cue,” the engineer said, grabbing Ratchet by the shoulder. “C'mon, I wanna check H.R., make sure he didn't bust anything hitting the ground like that right after an upgrade.”

\-----------------------------------

“If I could have your attention for a moment,” Optimus said, standing tall from a spot at the Decepticon leadership table where he had found the young Hot Rod asking something about the Earth's oceans, Springer at his side. He had waited for the bright young “cavalier” to finish before speaking, and had phrased it as a request. In truth he didn't mean it as anything less, but he realized that it was important to appear firm: his tone made it clear that the attention of those assembled was not optional. Faces turned to him, conversations quieted.

He continued, “this ceremony is cause for great celebration, as is the nature of the crowd I see before me. As Elita One said, it has been a very long time since Autobots and Decepticons gathered peacefully under one roof. But, in the past lunar cycle we have in fact seen more than one such gathering, albeit most often on a smaller scale than this. I wish that this cooperation between our factions could have been due to something more pleasant, that the three young Autobots we recognize today could have come into maturity in a time without worry.”

Several expressions changed throughout the crowd, optics dimmed or brightened as moods shifted. This was meant to be a happy occasion, but Optimus knew from experience that happiness in times of danger must be tempered with readiness. Ratchet, who was standing with Wheeljack near Shockwave, gestured at Optimus, but his focus was on the recently repaired former Senator. Hot Rod's expression turned downward.

Megatron shifted audibly in his seat, and Optimus went on, “as you all know, this peace between Cybertronians is due to the threat of the Quintessons. In order to preserve the freedom of all Cybertronians—of _all_ life—Autobots and Decepticons alike must set aside our differences and work together. I can't say what will happen when the Quintessons are no longer a concern; there _will_ be a time for such discussions. But for now…”

He turned to Megatron, who nodded and stood. Optimus noted that his longtime foe made a point of stepping forward to a position that put Optimus in his shadow before saying, “it falls to us to unify all Cybertronians against this threat. Here, and on Earth, Decepticons and Autobots are prepared, yes. But there are Transformers throughout the galaxy who have only sub-space transmissions to go on, weak signals that barely convey half of the necessary information. Some have proven able to begin the journey back to Cybertron on their own, but others will require guidance in order to find purpose under this new treaty, and to prepare their positions for defense against the Quintessons. To consolidate our forces and gather the needed resources, it seems that it will be necessary for some of us to visit our colonies and bases elsewhere.”

This lead to some hushed murmuring, heads turning to look around the room with uncertain gazes. Optimus moved slightly, just enough to be able to see Megatron's expression as he went on.

“I, Optimus, and…” Megatron paused, discomfort flashing on his face briefly, “Skyfire will be setting out as the representatives of the Decepticons, Autobots, and _unaligned_ Cybertronians. As an acknowledgment of their assistance, we will be accompanied by a Galactic Council representative, as well as human representatives from Earth. And, as it will be necessary to perform analysis of colonial operations, improve communications with Cybertron, and defend ourselves—in case of an appearance by the Quintessons…”

Megatron left it unsaid, but Optimus clearly heard the implication that defense from Optimus, Skyfire, and/or a colony full of Autobots was also one of his concerns. So, it was no surprise when he said, “...Starscream, Astrotrain, Frenzy. You three will be joining me. Starscream, select a trine of Seekers with appropriate skills.”

Even as Megatron nodded to Optimus to take his turn and stepped back, Decepticons and Autobots were rising from their seats to object. Soundwave, of course, loyal as ever; one of the other Seekers, a cone-headed one, was shouting something about Megatron being alone with Starscream. Optimus _felt_ the glare that Megatron shot over his shoulder at the crowd, and there was silence at least from his side. Optimus held up his hands in an appeasing gesture, and addressed the crowd, “I will also ask that several Autobots accompany us for the same reasons. Cosmos, Perceptor, Seaspray; your recent experience in visiting other planets would be a great help. Other volunteers are welcome, but bear in mind that space will be limited, and we'll need to be prepared to have others join us-”

Elita One rose abruptly, audibly bringing down her servos on the table, and stared across the room into Optimus's optics. Feelings washed over him through their bond, frustration with him, anger, and concern for his safety. At her side, Arcee looked back and forth, and Hot Rod and Springer seemed just as confused. Well, Hot Rod was most likely confused because until a moment ago he had been looking at his reflection in his own highly polished new arm. Having a whole new face looking back at you could be distracting in even the most demanding circumstances, Optimus knew.

“I realize that this is abrupt, and there are risks,” Optimus explained, facing the whole crowd but speaking mainly to Elita. “Under better circumstances, I would of course have taken the time to discuss this with all of you more personally, to weigh other options. However, the situation demands swift action, and the presence of both myself and Megatron will be the most effective means of assuring those we meet that a truce is in place. I trust in all of you, and know without question that I leave Cybertron and our allies on Earth in good hands.”

There was little more to say to those assembled, but the feelings and expression Elita was directing at him unquestionably said _we **will** have words about this_.

\-----------------------------------

The discussions with Ratchet and Wheeljack had solidified it. Shockwave had mentioned the idea to Ratchet briefly, sought the judgment of one who had been closely involved in the upgrade process and knew the others involved. Wheeljack had insisted on being included in the discussion, which was enough agitation to make him need to sit down throughout. And with the plans solid, Optimus and Megatron's speech marked this as the time to reveal them.

“If,” he began, standing, then raising his volume a bit more and starting again, only able to keep from shaking with nervousness by temporarily offlining some of his own motor functions, “if I may have your attention as well?”

All optics turned to him. Reassuringly, Ratchet and Wheeljack nodded to him, as did Perceptor from where he stood at a refreshment table, having looked up from a container of energon he was examining. Further back, near the end of the Decepticon table, the Rainmakers gave him the ‘you lead/go ahead’ gesture from the hand signals taught in the Cybertron Guard.

“As you are no doubt aware from my present appearance, I have recently been restored to a level of functionality that I had long thought was beyond the boundaries of science.” His own voice still sounded unfamiliar. The same accent, the same word choices, but colored by emotion, and by the physical change of once again having lips to reshape sounds. “Together with the present circumstances of peace between the Decepticons and the Autobots, and our mutual opposition to the activities of the Quintessons…”

He hesitated, looking over the audience again. Was he losing them? Should he have been more straightforward, or was it necessary to explain things? They _looked_ as if they were paying attention. He continued.

“Indeed, even this very ceremony. All of these factors under consideration, I have found merit in revisiting the past. Not only to better understand our opponents, but to better understand ourselves. As Cybertronians, that is.”

Disengaging the motor lock, he took a careful step forward, trying to add a bit of life and activity to keep the audience’s interest.

“Many of you recall a time when Cybertronian education extended beyond basic training, though all but a few of these institutions exist only as memories” he held up a holoprojector, which extended into a large display of numerous buildings, (hopefully) visible even from the rear of the auditorium. As he named them, each of the monochrome buildings briefly came into vibrant color. “The War Academy at Vos was focused on the craft of war, but also its art, matters of engineering and strategy. The Academy of Science and Technology, in Iacon, was famed across Cybertron for its high standards and demanding curriculum. The esteemed Protihex Medical Mechanics University and its satellite campuses. The Institute for Higher Programming, the Academy of Cybertronian Law Enforcement, the Cybertronian Military Academy at Omnihelix. Numerous Primary Programming facilities and institutes.”

At last, one small building remained, barely noticeable except for its exclusion. As he spoke, it expanded to greater size than the others.

“Not particularly notable among these was the institution I founded, the Academy of Advanced Technology, the sole distinction thereof being my decision to focus on the education and training of outliers.”

He shut off the projector, paused a moment to collect himself, and said, “I intend to follow in this, and open a new Academy. For _all_ young Cybertronians, regardless of origin…”

His gaze drifted over the group of young gestalt combiners, born not of carefully planned construction, but of desperation and out of pre-existing machinery.

“Or of faction,” he continued, now looking at the three young Autobots who had just been upgraded, then to some of the younger and less competent Decepticons, “or of ability. The purpose of this Academy shall be the complete education of those Cybertronians who, due to the circumstances of our long war, have not had the opportunity to be properly introduced to the fundamental concepts that many of us take for granted.”

Another pause, as the murmurs of the crowd became audible to him.

“Enrollment will be strictly voluntary, but for the youngest among us, it shall be strongly encouraged.” He turned on the holoprojector, and displayed a list of planned subject areas and accommodations. “This is, of course, all subject to approval by our leaders, who will of course have the authority to deny or command entry where they deem it necessary.”

From a seat not far from himself, Megatron nodded to Optimus, then made a show of leaning forward and speaking up.

“Where exactly,” he asked Shockwave, his tone even but curious, “do you propose to establish this Academy of yours? As you said, there are no appropriate facilities remaining on Cybertron, and strategic operations here would make it… difficult.”

Now was the moment he most feared. Megatron’s question meant that his back-up plans were unlikely, and everything rested on this gamble.

“I propose,” he said, looking towards the table of the Autobot leadership, to exactly those whose permission and assistance he would need, “to establish it on Earth.”


	3. Deceptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry about the **very** long wait! Here's chapter three.
> 
>  **"Engin mieulx vault que force.”**  
>  **(Machination hath greater worth than might.)**  
>  —François Rabelais, _Pantagruel_ (1532), Ch. 27.

“Gee, Bumblebee,” said Spike, letting out a sigh as he looked out over the events unfolding at the Autobot Headquarters on Earth. He and a number of the Autobots—some of whom recognized his “Honorary Autobot” status more than others—had been Earthbound during the recent crisis, which in all honesty suited the human youth just fine. “I'll admit, after all that talk about the Quintessons, I didn't feel much like visiting Cybertron again for a while.”

“You and me both, Spike,” replied Bumblebee, who slowly circling the base at a slight distance, Spike sitting in his driver's seat, but not in control. “They seemed like something out of one of those ‘comic books.’”

“And not a good one, either,” replied Spike. “But you know, I kinda figured beating them meant that things would quiet down, and you'd all head back to Cybertron.”

“What's that saying?” Bumblebee turned towards an area on the perimeter of the base, just beyond the normal range but still within the area that had been granted to the Autobots as a special 'extraterritorial' zone. “Expect the unexpected?”

“I sure didn't expect _that_ ,” said Spike, looking out at the new construction. In contrast to the aged orange of the Autobot facilities, this was a dull purple hue that stood out dramatically against the desert backdrop.

They were calling it the “Decepticon Embassy”, though it was more complex than that. The ceasefire between the Autobots and the Decepticons had had more than a few concessions made to the Decepticons in order to keep things peaceful with them, including allowing them to openly establish a base near to the Autobots. This had been presented to the United Nations—and a panicked Red Alert—as a means of keeping an eye on them and ensuring the Decepticons on Earth were working towards constructive ends, though Spike had to wonder how much of that was true.

“Well, both sides had to make concessions,” Bumblebee said in a slightly begrudging tone, as he opened his door to let Spike out. “The Cons agreed to release some prisoners to the Autobots, and let human inspectors have a look at their facilities. Even agreed to let Red have a look around.”

“I would have figured the Earth's governments wouldn't want anything to do with the Decepticons,” said Spike, stepping out and patting out some wrinkles in his clothes. “I mean, they did blow up a lot of our buildings and military equipment.”

“Hey, nobody knows how that feels more than us Autobots,” Bumblebee laughed, and then transformed into robot mode, barely standing taller than Spike himself. “But apparently they were able to make some arrangements with your governments to share aerospace technology, and their energy refining methods.”

“And yours truly has the delightful pleasure of ensuring that venture continues to be mutually beneficial,” said an unfamiliar voice. From around the corner of the violet-toned building, a small yellow Jeep rolled up, barely bigger than Bumblebee's own small vehicle mode. Transforming mid-roll into a blocky robot who somehow stood noticeably taller than the Autobot, he gave the pair a far slimier smile than Spike would have figured a metal face could manage.

“Swindle, right?” Bumblebee edged back slightly, the lack of trust in his voice showing in his posture.

“With a name like that, why should anyone trust you?” asked Spike, just before recognition set in. “And, hey, you’re one of those Combaticons! Didn’t you try to destroy Cybertron?”

“Hey, hey now, that’s all in the past,” Swindle kneeled down slightly, waving his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We had some old faulty shell programming in our personality components, that’s all. You wouldn’t blame a human for being, uh… what’s it called, hypothesized?”

“You mean you were _hypnotized_? I dunno, what do you think, ‘Bee?” Spike asked, turning to his friend. “Seems mighty suspicious.”

“Well,” Bumblebee mused, a hand on his chin, “it’s not unheard of. At the beginning of the war, a lot of bots said that they knew some of the Cons personally and that it was like they’d become whole other people.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Swindle perked up. “Well, I mean, not exactly, but pretty close. But that’s old history, and now we’re making new history. Megatron and your glorious leader Optimus struck a bargain—with a little bit of advice and negotiations from yours truly to sweeten the deal, mind you—and now most of Earth’s governments are giving us a clean slate in exchange for resources and information. Total amnesty for past crimes, and all we have to do is share some of our basic aerospace and energon synthesis technology, and station a few Decepticons on Earth under the authority of the humans.”

Spike could guess why Swindle might have been trusted, once you got past his name. The Combaticon had an unusually friendly face, with oversized eyes that gave him a somewhat childlike appearance in spite of his size. Bumblebee, of course, was similarly popular among humans, and seemed to be as wary of Swindle as Spike was. The minibot cast a sly grin at his former enemy turned doubtful ally.

“I suppose **you’re** the middle-con in charge of the Decepticons on Earth, huh?”

“Woah, not at all, my new friend,” Swindle looked up and down at Bumblebee, smiling. “That is, I hope we’ll be friends—I’m not even a second bananatron. My old commander Onslaught is going to be running the show. Lots of experience as a military bot, you know, a real strategic mind and big on plans. The type that politicians just eat up, ‘cause he does the hard work for them. Megatron appointed him personally, and I hear even Optimus was in favor of it!”

“In other words,” Bumblebee mused, a snide undertone to his voice, “Megatron decided that even after fixing whatever was wrong with your processors, he still didn’t trust the lot of you and is sticking you on Earth while he, Optimus, and Skyfire tour the galaxy.”

“Gentle Autobot, you wound me!” said Swindle, striking a pose of mock sorrow, then quickly recovering. He nodded down at Spike. “But that’s about the size of it. Hey, do you two want to come in for a tour, or just sit around here waiting for our joints to rust?”

\-----------------------------------

“Do you plan on keeping me waiting until my joints rust, Starscream?" asked Megatron. "Who did you select to join us?”

“Impatience ill becomes you, Megatron,” Starscream sneered, but handed his master a datapad just the same. “Bowshock's group; Meteoriser and Outburst.”

Megatron reviewed the pad; it didn't seem to suit him to keep track of every soldier under his command. “Maintenance specialists?”

“Specifically, aerospace vehicles, orbital mechanisms, and communications systems. They're well-suited for interplanetary travel, and they can bring local operations up to superior standards.” Starscream shrugged. “They’ve been sitting around doing nothing in the Cybertron Guard for about nearly fifty kilovorns, if nothing else they’re due for time off-planet.”

So that was why Megatron didn’t recognize the names. The Nemesis had taken off rather abruptly, with something of a skeleton crew padded out by a few soldiers who had previously been kept in varying stages of stasis and disassembly in the cargo sections; once they’d been rebuilt, the Constructicons had filled the necessary duties of maintenance. But their specialties lay elsewhere.

“Hmm, very well,” the Decepticon leader replied, setting the pad down and giving a lazy wave. “Have them undergo a complete systems check, and run them through some exercises. We leave in a mega-cycle.”

A little under four Earth days, and he’d be stuck in space. At the very least, he wouldn’t be obliged to share a compartment with the Autobots and their human companions, or travel inside Skyfire. True, Starscream would likely opt to do so, or perhaps simply fly alongside him. With a chuckle, he asked his questionably loyal Air Commander if that would be the case.

“Most likely,” admitted Starscream, after a moment’s hesitation and a distant gaze. His attention snapped back to his surroundings, and he fixed Megatron with an inquisitive look. “Four Seekers. It will be only you and Frenzy inside Astrotrain, hmm? Or do you plan to join us in the void…?”

Megatron chuckled. “No, I intend to conserve my energy—and put more than space between myself and the Autobots. We will be meeting with a number of Decepticons I am interested in having join me, however. There are several at our colonies and other bases whose unique skills would be put to better use in dealing with the Quintessons.”

“As well as the Autobots?” Starscream asked, his tone now a bit more serious.

“Yes,” Megatron replied. “I mislike the terms of this truce, but it is the best we can hope for at the moment. However, that does not mean I do not intend to press our advantages, nor attempt to secure terms that place us in a superior position.”

“Well put,” replied Starscream. “And who, pray tell, will we be dragging back along with us?”

“That depends,” Megatron vented air, mulling over the question a moment. “It has been far too long since we have had persistent contact with these bases. The best we’ve managed is a few short transmissions via Shockwave, and some data packets on changes in the situation while we slumbered. There is much that can be concealed when one does not have the opportunity to review matters in person.”

“So,” said Starscream, “we may have to go with our fuel pumps on it?”

“Indeed, though we shall be gathering several notables who may be especially useful for that,” Megatron said, activating another datapad with details on their intended course through space. “Optimus was quite generous in conceding to have our first stopover be at Karashi-Delta. I shall have need of some of Decepticon High Justice’s personnel if we are to evaluate….”

He let the thought hang in the air a moment. Starscream nodded, and finished it for him.

“The warlords. I suppose,” the Air Commander rubbed his chin, thinking aloud, “that at the time, it was prudent enough to place your former rivals in command of their own petty little colonies and fortresses. But after so long—I know what I would have done, with such an absence.”

“And so you remind me at every opportunity,” Megatron remarked, a dark smile crossing his face. “Sometimes I think that the only reason I leave you functioning is to keep me wary.”

“You are too generous, oh supreme and powerful Megatron,” Starscream affected an exaggerated bow, then rose enough to look Megatron in the optics. “But my own ambition is nothing compared to what is harbored by some of those. Thunderwing? Bludgeon? Dare I say, Deathsaurus? Not to mention any who may have managed to more cautiously hide their own goals, or developed them more recently.”

“Yes, yes,” Megatron flipped through the scant data on the present activities of the Decepticons in question, and a few more about whom he had doubts. “At times like this, I almost wish I commanded those Autobot weaklings. Surely they have nothing to hide.”

\-----------------------------------

Fireflight slumped down to the floor, as if utterly exhausted, and curled around his knee joints. In truth, he was very tired, but the action was more one of relief than weariness. The trip from Cybertron to Earth had been instantaneous, leaving out time spent queueing up and waiting for the space bridge to be checked for safety after each transportation. It was the time spent away from his collection that had upset him the most.

True, he’d been able to offset it by taking in the sights and wonders of Cybertron, both as part of patrols, and later on during his off time. For the Aerialbot reconnaissance “expert”, the great advantage of being a scout was that he had plenty of time to admire beautiful vistas and landscapes, to take in the wonders of natural formations and the brilliant artistry of architecture and monuments.

But those interests were merely the ones that he could not help but be open about. Now, tucked away in a cabinet behind him were the things that he didn’t share with others—save Red Alert, who had inquired rather persistently about Fireflight’s frequent connections to external computer networks and use of the media stations at odd times.

“Well, that’s,” Red Alert had almost stammered, so stunned at the nature of the documents that Fireflight was reviewing. “Alright then, as long as I don’t detect any other file types being transmitted, I suppose this is acceptable. Optimus Prime does insist we develop an interest in human… culture.”

“Culture”, he’d called it. Human culture was the dross that the other Autobots were addicted to, the televised broadcasts of “soap operas” and “novelas” that managed to combine the most uninspired of human acting with the most blandly repetitive and predictable storytelling imaginable. There was romance, yes, but it was such absurd romance.

Nothing like his collection. He turned slightly, sliding open the cabinet with a small coded transmission that would unlock it only for him, and withdrew several small books. Crafted of flimsy material even as the pressed organic matter that was most human publications went, the small books were absolutely miniscule in his hands, and required patient effort to read.

Most of it was in English, the human language he’d been brought online with, and the one most often used by the Autobots due to operating primarily out of the United States. Those were mainly works of prose, what the humans called “science fiction”. It showed an imagination and creativity that was wholly lacking in the majority of the televised broadcasts, and proved that humans were capable of dreaming of things from far outside their experience. He’d thought otherwise, in fact; he’d made an attempt to subtly question the human engineer Sparkplug (who was not, apparently, counted as a medic in spite of his great skill in repairing Autobots).

Sparkplug had confirmed something that inspired wonder in Fireflight: that the tales of instantaneous transportation across vast distances, massive starships, and alien races were all written by humans who had no sure knowledge of such things, and much of it had been written prior to the awakening of the Autobots and Decepticons. Somehow, human writers had been able to invent concepts beyond their science, beyond their ability to observe—and then began to find them in reality, as the universe opened up to them.

Thumbing open the well-worn cover of Foundation, he wondered how much further that imagination would go. Humans were set to begin expanding into their local sphere of space, with representatives from Earth joining the upcoming voyage to reestablishing contact with distant Transformers, as well as some plans that had been brought up about working with the Decepticons. He wished he was involved in either of those missions.

Instead, he and his Aerialbot brothers—as well as the Protectobots and Dinobots—had been encouraged by Optimus Prime and Ratchet to attend some new school that Shockwave was establishing. Talks were under way between the former cyclops and the government of the United States or maybe Canada; someone had mentioned something about Shockwave selling some things to raise capital, or maybe it was to make amends for all the destruction the Decepticons caused. Fireflight honestly didn’t know, and didn’t much care.

Gathering up his collection, he began carefully shunting them into subspace storage. Novels, magazines, a large number of hand-printed copies of some of the better fan-produced content he’d found on the human communications network, and even a few comics picked up when he got lost in Japan a year ago. He had no idea if attending this school meant remaining at the Autobot base, or if he was going to have to stay elsewhere, but after all that time on Cybertron, he had decided it was best if he keep his books with him wherever he may wind up.

It was at the exact moment he finished putting the last book away—thank Vector Sigma for good timing!—that the door slid open. Groove stood at the entrance, looking atypically excited and energetic. Fireflight liked Groove; the Protectobot scout shared a lot of his perspective, and had the same tendency to get lost in his thoughts. 

“Hey, wow, there you are!” drawled Groove, sliding easily into the room. “Your bros said you might be in here, but I checked a bunch of other places first, just in case.”

“Hey Groove, what’s up?” Fireflight asked, rising from his spot on the floor and taking care to hide the now empty compartment he was sliding shut with his foot.

“The ceiling, the top of the mountain, the beautiful blue sky,” Groove grinned, his golden face split wide by the kind of smile that said he thought he was being really clever, “and a way big Autobot spaceship that just got permission to land and bring in some out-of-towners who got the word about the truce!”

That was a surprise; Fireflight would be the first to admit he was inattentive, but usually there would have been more notice about an incoming vessel. “How’d they get here so fast?”

“No clue, ain’t that weird? Anyway, everybody who’s around is gathering to have a look,” Groove waved Fireflight on, already backing out the door. “C’mon, man! It’s a real party, a landing party.”

“You sure you’re using that right?” asked Fireflight, unsure but following anyway.

“Um, maybe?” replied Groove, hopping into his motorcycle mode and leading the way as Fireflight followed on foot. A few turns down hallways—and far less direct than either Groove or Fireflight ought to have gone—they arrived at the exit to the Ark and joined a cluster of Autobots gazing skyward. Aside from their own Aerialbot and Protectobot brothers, in seemed that most of the Autobots who had volunteered or been ordered to remain on Earth for the time being were present.

“Wow, everyone’s really here,” mumbled Fireflight. “Tracks, Hound, Mirage, all the minibots—um, wait, no. Where’s Seaspray and Cosmos?”

“Like, I think that Optimus had some stuff to talk to them about?” replied Groove. “I guess that’s why he’s not here, either. Or, uh… Prowl ain’t here, either.”

Fireflight nodded. The two scouts might have been notorious for drifting off, but a large part of the reason that happened in the first place was that they noticed things others didn’t. For example…

“ _Jazz_ is here, though,” he observed, “And Red Alert.”

“Hmm, yeah,” replied Groove, as they lazily headed towards the others, having slowed down as soon as they exited the Ark. “Could be there’s something ‘bout that. I guess he needs a close look at the newcomers?”

It wouldn’t have made sense for the chief of security to be present otherwise; Red Alert was far more prone to observing situations like this from behind a monitor, where he could easily activate security systems and lock himself in safety. Meanwhile, Jazz might have been just as easy-going as the two scouts, but pretty much everyone knew that he was effectively third in command and well deserving of the position. That the two of them were front and center was a clear sign that no chance was being taken on details being missed.

Arriving at the edges of the crowd and joining their teams, Fireflight and Groove greeted the others, and looked up. A long-range starship of fairly standard Autobot design was descending at a steady rate, details rapidly becoming more apparent as it descended.

“Took you long enough to get out here,” said Air Raid, shielding his optics from the sun as he looked up. “Not that there’s a rush. Whoever’s piloting that is really taking their time.”

“No harm showing a little caution in landing on an unfamiliar planet, Air Raid,” replied Silverbolt, setting a hand on Fireflight’s shoulder. “And Fireflight, don’t worry about it. I know it takes time to reacclimate to Earth after having been on Cybertron.”

“Um, thanks,” Fireflight said. In spite of its apparently slow descent, the vessel was actually now quite near to landing. “Any idea who’s in there?”

“Word is a few Autobots and some Decepticons,” answered Streetwise. The Protectobot was standing near enough to have overheard, even over the growing noise of the descending ship’s engines as it adjusted its angle of approach for landing. “Never heard of any of them, though.”

At last, the ship put down landing struts and made contact. A few moments later, a bay door opened, and a group of unfamiliar Transformers exited. At the lead was a red and black Autobot who had evidently already switched to an Earth-based alternate mode, judging by the visible components—as had the others, now that they came into view. Directly behind him were a white mech and a gray one, none of them having very notable features, but sharing some common aspects of design.

In contrast, the next pair disembarking were very similar; they could have been split from the same spark, on top of sharing the same bodyplan. Sturdily built and with prominent doorwings, the only notable difference between the two was that one was orange with some gray, and had a faceplate, while the other was red-accented blue with an organic-style face. They almost seemed to walk in step with each other. Both had prominently displayed Autobrands on their chests, and were consulting some sort of handheld scanners.

The last three—following so closely and clumsily behind that they nearly collided with the apparent twins—instead bore Decepticon insignias, and were clearly fliers. But there was something very odd about them, much more sleek and organic-looking to Fireflight’s optics than he and his fellow Aerialbots, nor any Seeker he’d encountered. All three had visored faces with no visible mouth or even faceplate, the visor extending down in a three-pointed star shape that covered the usual location of the mouth. They were very blatantly a trine of some sort.

“Greetings,” Jazz said, loud enough for all to hear but still retaining a friendly and casual attitude in his posture and tone, “and welcome to Earth, fellow Autobots and associated Decepticons. Optimus Prime would be here to greet you all in person, but the big man has some unavoidable business. Name’s Jazz!”

The red and black robot smiled in return, evidently not offended by the suggestion that he might be important enough for the supreme commander of the Autobot forces to be present if possible. He gestured to himself, tapping the broad car hood that formed his chest. Looking at him next to Jazz, Fireflight was struck by the idle question of how either mech could ever manage to reach around their own chests.

“Overdrive. We’re the Omni—” he began, but was interrupted as his orange companion stumbled in front of him, having been too focused on his scanning device to notice his representative’s feet. Overdrive paused, offering a hand to the other robot, and lifted him up, then patted him down to make sure nothing was broken. “— _bots_. The Omnibots. Sorry about that, Screech.”

He gestured to the others, who stood at attention, save the three Decepticons, who clumsily saluted. Between the three of them, Fireflight wasn’t sure how much of it was sarcastic versus incompetent; the orange one with stripes like an Earth tiger (or maybe more like a zebra?) had a defiant look to him, while the white one with blue accents seemed a bit distracted. 

“Least, some of us are. My colleagues,” he pointed specifically to the gray and white Autobots, “Camshaft and Downshift. Bluie there’s Skids, we picked up him and his mate Screech at the Orbital Hub. The three Cons…”

The one in the center of the group, a black jet with red upper arms and thighs, stepped forward. Of the three, he had saluted the most smartly, and seemed to be in command of his trine. His voice carried all the youth and charm that his visored features did not convey, having almost a feminine timbre. 

“Sir, Skyjack reporting in, and may I say how pleased I am to learn of this treaty! These are my companions Hooligan,” he nodded to the orange jet, who gave a lackluster wave, while the white and blue one seemed distracted by a spot on the ceiling, “and Space Case. I do apologize in advance for any incidents involving them, we are unfortunately a bit lacking in training.”

“Heck, that’s no problem at all,” grinned Jazz. “As a matter of fact, your old head of Decepticon operations on Cybertron, none other than Shockwave himself, is at this very moment working on setting up a school for young robots. I’m sure he’d be happy to have three new students.”

At this point, Jazz gestured back to the crowd of Autobots, somehow managing to point right at the Aerialbots and Protectobots without looking. “It just so happens that Optimus has asked a bunch of our own young mechanoids to sign up, so you’ll probably improve the ratio of Bots to Cons.”

“But you know,” he said as he turned back to the newly arrived Autobots. “I think I’ve heard of you Skids, but not your buddy Screech. And unless I miss my guess, the two of you are related?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Screech replied, seeming a bit surprised. He paused, adjusting some vehicle components that had shifted out of place and buffing his helmet, some sort of nervous gesture. “Skids was always the bigger name, you know. Me, I’m nobody important. I’m a theoretician.”

\-----------------------------------

Several hours later, after what seemed like introductions to every last Autobot available on base, not to mention several Decepticons from the nearby “Embassy” and a number of perfectly lovely humans, Screech slumped back down into a chair on the _Fine-Tuned Universe_. The ship had served as home for a long voyage to Earth, and would continue to do so until extra habitation suites on the Ark could be cleared out. It had the distinct advantage of not being full of volcanic rocks.

At the moment, it also had the distinct advantage of being free of sensors and prying eyes.

“Well, that was very nearly a complete disaster,” he remarked to the air.

“If your scanners had been working,” replied Overdrive, “we would have been prepared.”

“Oh, come off it,” said Screech, though there was little malice in his tone. He rose abruptly, getting near enough to Overdrive to see into his optics. “You’re mister big-shot universe jumper. The one who can practically sniff out fluctuations in the space-time continuum, leader of the Omnibots or Omnicons or Protectors, or whatever you’re calling yourselves when you don’t have the sense to learn to speak more than a couple words with your hands.”

“Yes,” replied Overdrive. “I am. And you, theoretician, and your predecessor—”

He turned sharply, staring at Skids, who gave a ‘what, me?’ gesture from where he leaned against a door.

“You lot are guests, until such time as we can get you and _those three_ properly sorted out.” Overdrive rose, casting glances at Downshift and Camshaft, who seemed to find that discretion was the watchword of the day. He turned back, and waved a hand in no particular direction, saying, “you’re lucky we didn’t drop you in Axiom Nexus.”

“Lucky!” Screech laughed. “What's that mean, ‘lucky’? Seventy-five million surviving universal streams with Cybertronian life; is that lucky? And here's a better question: what makes this one so lucky?”

He sat down again, sprawling back, and looked to Camshaft, seated in front of a monitor. “Well, come on, you're monitoring the whole galaxy. Is this universe in danger?”

Camshaft reviewed some figures, making a show of examining the display, before offering a meek but definitive, “no.”

“Are the Transformers of this universe at risk of attracting the singularity?” Screech inquired, now directing it at Downshift, who did not even take a second look at his own monitor.

“No.”

Screech laughed, his optics showing the smile his faceplate couldn’t. “Okay! One more, just one. Is this reality protected? Because we won’t be the first lot to come here.”

He cast a gaze through the doorway where Skids stood, out to the three unusual jets having a hushed conversation of their own.

“Oh, there will be so many,” he murmured, then raised his voice, looking again to Overdrive. “What we’ve got to ask, is: what will happen to them?”

Overdrive, experienced dimension-hopper, leader of the unit known only to some as the Omnibots, unrivaled repairmech of the timestream, shrugged helplessly in defeat. Screech rose, hands on his hips.

“Well now,” he said, “I’m a theoretician, it's time to theorize. Let’s _figure it out_.”


End file.
